


bad prisoner

by idioteques



Category: Barry (TV 2018)
Genre: Codependency, M/M, Masculinity, Power Dynamics, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:09:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21605833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idioteques/pseuds/idioteques
Summary: Barry has a date this Friday. Fuches would like to help.
Relationships: Barry Berkman/Monroe Fuches
Comments: 4
Kudos: 39





	bad prisoner

‘You’ve got long legs, buddy,’ Fuches says. ‘But not that long.’

He passes Barry the same pair of steel-grey slacks, though these are in a smaller size. Barry closes the fitting room's door, puts the slacks on, and looks at himself in the mirror. They don’t look any different from the ones Fuches had made him try on before. Still, tailoring isn’t something Barry is naturally able to hold strong opinions on, unlike Fuches, who definitely owns at least one suit.

As he tucks in the starchy blue shirt, the one he was promised could be paired with the trousers and the new shoes, he catches a glimpse of Fuches through the slight gap under the door. One of Fuches’ feet has begun to tap to no distinguishable rhythm.

‘Done?’ Fuches calls out.

‘Yes,’ Barry says. He wipes his mouth before opening the door.

Fuches doesn’t look at his face at first. His gaze is fixed on Barry’s thighs—and then his waist, and then his chest. Barry keeps his own eyes trained, as best as he can, on Fuches’ eyebrows.

‘Well,’ Fuches says. ‘She’ll love you in this, pal. No doubt about it.’ Fuches reaches out to grip Barry’s shoulder, tight and grasping. ‘The shirt and the—yeah, no doubt. Brings out your—yes.’

‘You think so?’ Barry asks. ‘Aren’t the shoes kind of—’

‘No,’ Fuches replies. ‘They’re fine, and so is the—’

‘Yeah?’ Barry asks.

‘Yeah,’ Fuches says, smiling.

Barry turns away, feeling slightly flushed, to face the mirror again. He is about to close the door behind him when Fuches speaks.

‘Barry,’ Fuches says. There’s an inquiring tilt to the second syllable.

Barry is about to face him when Fuches continues. ‘Don’t turn around,’ he says.

‘Okay,’ Barry says, making eye contact through the mirror. ‘Is there a problem with the slacks?’ His fingers spasm upwards to smoothen the unusual collar of his shirt. He watches as Fuches watches him.

‘No,’ Fuches says, after a long pause. ‘But you should take them off—the shirt, too.’

Barry stills. ‘Why?’ he asks, but his hands have already fluttered down to unbutton the shirt. Fuches’ expression is almost fond as his gaze drops down to Barry’s fingers.

‘So that I can give them to the cashier, dummy,’ he says, not unkindly. ‘It’s closing time.’

At this request, Barry tries to shrug out of the shirt, but a stray security tag refuses to relinquish its hold on the thin undershirt that he’d worn to the store. After a few seconds, he looks at Fuches, who has been watching him with an anticipatory curve to his mouth.

‘Could you—’ Barry starts to say, but Fuches is already inside the stall. He pulls the door shut and stands behind Barry. They both look at their reflections in the mirror.

‘Barry Berkman, war hero,’ Fuches says. He rests one clammy hand on Barry’s hip and, with the other, pulls the shirt off twisted shoulders. ‘Bested by cotton blend.’

Fuches hangs the new shirt on the hook by the side of the mirror. He takes care not to brush his body against Barry’s as he does this, but his left hand has already moved down Barry’s lower stomach to slowly undo the zip on the trousers. Barry doesn’t have to look at his own face in the mirror to know that it has turned a blotchy red.

‘Shimmy,’ Fuches says, his voice light.

Barry does as he is told. After some vigorous shaking of his feet, the trousers drop to the ground. He steps out of them, and then glances at Fuches' reflection.

‘Maybe you should wear this cute little ensemble of yours on Friday instead,’ Fuches says, hanging up the trousers. He begins to palm the back of Barry’s shoulders, and then his chest. ‘Fuck the mandarin collar. Boxers and an undershirt. A little smolder, flex. Girls go nuts for that macho shit, don’t you know?’

‘Maybe in a movie from the 50s, grandpa,’ Barry says. His voice cracks as Fuches runs his thumb down the back seam of his boxers. ‘Not sure you know what’s—’

‘Well, what I do know is that when you finally drive her back to her place,’ Fuches says, his voice soft, ‘And she takes off the beautiful shirt and trousers I bought for you, she’s going to see who you really are—beyond the limp-dicked trappings of modern civilization ready for purchase at fucking T.J. Maxx—and she’s going to want you to fuck her good and hard the way she hopes—the way I _know_ —you can. If only someone would let you. If only someone would tell you it’s okay.’

‘You think so?’ Barry asks.

‘I know so, buddy,’ Fuches says. He raises his left hand to Barry’s mouth to stop him from worrying his lower lip. ‘You’re a beast at heart, aren’t you, Barry? God, you don’t even know what you’re capable of, but that’s why I’m here.’

Fuches’ index finger presses hard against Barry’s mouth. Barry, unthinking, wraps his fingers around Fuches’ left wrist, tight enough to make both of them wince. Barry immediately lets go with a startled cough, prepared to make necessary apologies. Fuches preempts them, choosing instead to rest his forehead against Barry’s back, his exhales palpable through the sheer cloth of the undershirt. The warmth of it is excruciating.

Then, in one dizzying move, Fuches pulls his undershirt up.

‘Fuches,’ Barry says—a low, scandalized thing.

But Fuches says nothing. He presses his lips, his tongue against the damp skin of Barry’s spine, wrapping an arm around Barry’s waist to stop him from squirming, one hand over his mouth to silence a whine that Barry hadn’t known was about to emerge. Their knees knock into each other. Barry pushes his forearm against the mirror to stay upright, and he keeps his eyes screwed shut. There’s no escaping the fluorescent lighting, the lack of ventilation, Fuches’ rough, hot mouth. Still, Barry wants attention, more and more and more of it. He wants Fuches to acknowledge his aching cock, the back of his thighs—but he never has, and it’s unlikely he’ll start in a crappy fitting room.

‘Christ, I could eat you alive right now and you’d thank me,’ Fuches says, amused, reaching up to mouth at his ear. His fingers slip between Barry’s lips, brushing his tongue. They taste metallic. ‘Friday Night Marlboro Lights know how bad you want to get fucked?’

‘Should she?’ Barry asks, dazedly, his words muffled by stroking fingers. He opens his eyes to stare at Fuches.

Fuches pauses. He removes his fingers from Barry’s mouth; Barry makes a minute, embarrassing move to follow them, feels the absence in his mouth so acutely his chest may as well cave in. Fuches is contemplative as he runs the back of his wet fingers up and down Barry’s neck.

‘I just wish I could—I wish I could be there for you,’ Fuches says, unusually hesitant. A second later, he tilts his head, avoiding all eye contact. ‘You’ll treat her good for me, won’t you, Barry? Make me proud?’ He continues, caressing the skin under Barry’s wristband. ‘Because all I want is for you to have a good time on Friday.’ He doesn’t sound very convinced.

Barry blinks at him. He’s dimly aware of the closing announcement on the store speakers.

‘Thanks, Fuches,’ he replies, a few beats too late. Then, casual as anything, he says: ‘I mean, I’ll call you afterwards.’

Fuches’ eyes dart back to him.

‘I think I’ll want to tell you all about it,’ Barry adds, without any discernible inflection in his voice. ‘Maybe I could—I don't know, maybe I could come over.’

‘Yes,’ Fuches says. He straightens, and Barry hides a smile. ‘That’s fine, baby,' Fuches continues, still somewhat distracted. He stretches upwards to brush hair off Barry’s forehead. 'Whenever you’re done. Come over, doesn't matter how late. I just want to make sure that you’re—’

‘I know,’ Barry says.

‘Do you, though?’ Fuches asks, mildly.

They watch themselves in the mirror again. Fuches: still stood behind Barry, smoothing down his undershirt, flipping up the elastic of his underwear. Fuches’ fingers: straining to spread across Barry’s throat, shoulders, elbows. Fuches’ favourite things about him: his chin, his eyes, the fact that Barry could kill him right now, in about four different ways, and the fact that he never would.

Barry basks in it. He likes being liked. He likes it a lot.

‘Fuches, come on, get my jeans,’ Barry says, ‘Take me home.’

**Author's Note:**

> [ron howard voice] now the story of a war criminal who lost everything, and the one nasty uncle figure who trapped both of them into a perplexing relationship founded on the mutually mortifying ordeal of being known—one which now allows neither of them to truly enjoy the rewards of being loved. it’s barry hbo


End file.
